Discover Your Own Backyard, April 2002

In 1999, the author invited two motorcycle friends to tour the Himalaya on a Mike Ferris (of Ferris Wheels) organised tour. Because of the dive in the Australian dollar, in 2002 they and a fourth team member decided that touring Australia presented the best value. Fortuitously it also coincided with “The Year of the Outback”. In April, the team set out from Brisbane on the “Discover your own backyard bike trip”. Four thousand and one hundred kilometers and three states later it finished at Innamincka.

Riders and machines:

Ian Jensen (Jenno); Brisbane; Yamaha TT600 Belgarda electric start

Peter Knudsen (The Nud); Tully; BMW R80GS

Michael Barnes (Barnesy); Melbourne; Yamaha XT600

Les Leahy; (the author); Melbourne; Yamaha XT600

The rain was beating a crescendo on the taught nylon skin of the tiny tent. From the pitch black of the interior I fumbled for the torch and my wrist-watch. 5.27 am. BLAST! 3 days in Victoria and wet on everyone so far.

Day One:

Monday morning and four motorcycles rolled south out of Brisbane on the Beaudesert Road. The traffic was bumper to bumper on its way to work. But we’re not. We’re going in the opposite direction, outa here! Rolling through Rathdowney we saw the silhouette of Mt Lindesay hovering high about the state border, and the smell of Rhodes grass was in the air. It would be possible to do this section of road every day and never grow tired of it. Soon we made our first state-border crossing of the trip, Queensland into NSW. The border has a “tick control” inspection office and the inspector was busy doing nothing. That is the job for me.

The road south to Urbenville eventually turned into a gravel track and took us along the upper reaches of the Clarence River and Paddy’s Flat. The continuing gravel extended almost as far as Grafton. As we headed towards the New England Ranges, the Nymboida Valley (of white water rafting fame) flashed by. The disappearing afternoon light brought a chill to the air and we pulled in to the Ebor Falls hotel just on dark and pitched our tents round the back with a cold, damp dew settling fast. The pub was a little out of control, with the previous owner having walked out due to “cabin fever” and the new owners had moved in only that day. The camping facilities were somewhat rudimentary with a single shower-head in a run-down brick shed. But the counter-meal steaks were so big as to hang over the sides of the plate.

Day Two:

Early morning, and the tents were saturated with dew and mist as we packed. But every cloud has a silver lining and ours appeared on the upward climb to Armidale with the sun bursting through. Amazing how a little warm sun on the back improves the motorcycling. From Armidale…to Uralla…to Walcha which was our original intended overnight stop. So…we were running a little behind schedule. So what.

From Walcha we would travel south and parallel to the New England Range but in the foothills. These roads were predominantly dirt and poor quality bitumen but the route was an eye-opener to all of us.

The Nud: “As I lead the group through NSW, the rolling hills, the winding roads, the valleys all washed over me as I passed almost unnoticed through the landscape.”

Some tracks had to be around one hundred years old winding through original passes in the low ranges. An ancient bitumen road overhung with great boulders and signposted “Taylors Arms” was a stunner. And the township of Nundle (who’s ever hard of Nundle) was a real gem.

Within cooee of Tamworth there was a definite “country and western” feel to the air and we even fluked a heard of cattle being driven along the road by two riders on horseback. The lady was in full western gear with Texan riding boots, rolled Akubra stetson and stockwhip. From behind me I could hear Jenno with the digital video camera in overdrive. Further south around Scone the horses were of the thoroughbred variety and the area is one of the biggest suppliers of pure-bred blood horses for the Sydney racing scene.

At Muswellbrook we headed west for Bathurst. By the time we reached Sandy Hollow the sun was already very low in the ranges, so we took the option of pitching the tents a little early in a terrific bushland setting at the local caravan park. Barnesy: “This supa-u-beaut camping light that I wear strapped to my scone and in the middle of my forehead is the ducks guts… but all the blokes are calling me Cyclops.”

Day Three:

The team was terrific being up at very first light every morning and packed and on the road by 7.30 am. We needed a good start to make Braidwood by days end. The vineyards and horse studs were soon left behind as the bikes began the long climb towards Rylstone. The dirt road through here once used to pass through a tunnel, but the road has been upgraded with a good deal of bitumen. Alas, the tunnel is gone or has been bypassed. My original trip through here was in 1968, so that’s progress for you. The first gold mining settlement in NSW was the small village of Sofala. It is a collection of original buildings on a few tiny streets and now very much on the Tourist Route because of its authenticity.

An interesting stop-over here also gave us the opportunity to unpack our sopping wet tents and dry them off for 20 minutes in the dazzling sunshine. The Nud: “Struth….there’s nothing worse than a wet tent.” This was to be a bizarre but necessary daily ritual for almost all of the trip, except the desert areas where heavy dew would no longer be a problem.

Bathurst of course, is special to all motorcyclists (well older ones at least) as the past home of the Easter motorcycle races at Mt Panorama. The seventies and eighties were famous for run-ins between the Bikies and the Constabulary from Sydney. It was revamped in 2000 for the one year only but was a financial disaster. But I digress and we had lots more kilometres to do.

On through Oberon where sight of an enormous storm had us reaching for the waterproofs. And did it ever bucket down; including lightning. Dry roads had resumed by Goulburn and a dark, ominous late afternoon sky saw us arrive in Braidwood. A nice little township but hey!…no camping ground. On welcome advice from the petrol station, we cast our plight on the generosity of the local publican who let us camp in the backyard of his pub underneath the two Hills clothes hoists. Jenno: “Now, I know I called this ride the “Discover your own backyard bike trip”, but this is taking things to extremes.”

Day Four:

Areas of landscape adjacent to the Australian Capital Territory are often open, bare, windswept and largely devoid of trees. Or so we thought. That was until we set out to ride from Braidwood to Jindabyne. I had chosen the back roads leading first to Captain’s Flat and then south to Jerangle, Numeralla and rejoining the highway at Cooma. To my amazement, the countryside was tight, twisty, wooded and undulating. We were all staggered. Barnesy: “Hell…not more perfect roads that I haven’t been on before. Come to think of it, s’pose that’s the whole point of doing this trip.”

As Jindabyne drew nearer, we rode over one final crest to see the shimmering blue water of the lake; an icon of the Snow Mountains area.

In the centre of the township’s waterfront stands a huge statue in memory of Strzelecki the scientist and explorer. Later in our journey we would cross paths again with this early Polish/Australian immigrant. That evening in Jindabyne, the considerable number of lights were all on, but no-one was home. April is the slow season in this area but perfect for us. We had deluxe tent sites with the blue waters of Lake Jindabyne smack dab in front of us. Barnesy: ”Well…this sure gets my vote for camping ground-of-the-trip, so far.”

Day Five:

The Barry Way leads directly south from Jindabyne to eventually emerge at Buchan in Victoria. The first 35 kilometres are wide, smooth, well-made undulating bitumen. And then, WHAM! Out of nowhere it turns to narrow, corrugated, stony, torturous gravel road. Perfect; just what we like on these bikes.

At Craigie’s Lookout the incredible layers of blue ranges of Victoria stretched away before us, with the border some 20 kilometres further down that sinuous ribbon of pot-holed gravel. Very soon, the upper reaches of the famous Snowy River appeared on our left-hand side far below. The course of the river and the road run in parallel for many kilometres and a craggy perch of a lookout revealed a stunning view of the water some thousand feet below. At Willis a sheet-metal sign welcomed us to Victoria, and we celebrated our second state-border crossing. From here on, the landscape of the Kosciusko National Park was even more precipitous and I was astounded to round a corner and be confronted by a young deer on the roadway. At this stage I was the lead rider and well out in front, so I quickly cut the motor and watched quietly. It had no fear of me and several minutes elapsed before the deer picked its way up the precipitous slope and disappeared into the scrub.

Suggan Buggan was an interesting stop with its tiny, tiny slab-cut timber school house. The O’Roukes, owners of this grazing property in the 1880’s, had a great many children and seemed prosperous enough to engage a full-time school teacher to take care of their children’s education. The tiny building also included the teacher’s bedroom at one end, no larger than 3 metres x 2 metres. At least he wouldn’t have far to go to work.

The turn-off to Benambra greeted us with warnings of ice and snow on the road during winter. Fortunately this was April and, as usual so far, the temperature was “perfect” to hot. Very soon a misty haze settled in and became thicker and thicker. It was, of course, smoke from a very large fuel-reduction burn-off of 6,000 hectares. After the ritual tent-drying ceremony in hot sunshine in the main and only street of Benambra, we pushed on to our overnight camping ground in the Omeo Valley. As we cruised down off the ridge that is the main street, the resulting view was picture post-card perfect. The seasonal timing was accurate to the day with rows of mighty ancient poplars totally golden in their autumn livery and all around, deep reds and oranges. All this for $6.50 per head at our local caravan park.

That evening Peter boiled the billy for the first time and we all had a celebratory cuppa.

The Nud: “I knew this whiz-bang high-tech metho stove would come in handy.”

Day Six:

Omeo dawned overcast with a great deal of smoke still in the air. “The sun isn’t shining….we must be in Victoria.” Disparaging remarks aside, the somewhat theatrical atmosphere suited our day’s planned route.

Heading towards Hotham, we soon turned south onto the Casillis road and then west again onto the Birregun Track. This is a reasonably serious Alpine track linking Omeo and Dargo. The rolling grazing- country with a background of ranges was shrouded in haze and smoke. Very eerie.

As our altitude increased so too did the surrounds change to ferns and then snow gums. An important “must visit” spot on this track was the “Dog’s Grave”. Along with the famous Dog on the Tuckerbox outside Gundagai, the Dog’s Grave memorial is one of Australia’s special tributes to the outback working dog. In 1863, a cattleman from the Casillis property lost his dog “Boney” to a poison dingo bait, and buried him, marking the grave with a small cairn of stones. Some hundred years later, the spot was rediscovered by Jack Treasure (a local living legend) who knew the story as passed down through his family. A beautiful black-marble engraved tombstone now marks the spot of this tribute to the spirit of the high-country.

The Birregun Track soon disappeared into shrouds of mist with the gums and ranges taking on an ominous appearance. In parts, visibility was down to 5 metres but with our descent to the Dargo River it cleared. Barnesy: “Look at Jenno….riding one handed, shooting video back over his shoulder with the other. God-damn, how does he do that?”

At the Dargo-Hotham road junction the overcast sky turned to giant drops of rain, so we made a snap decision and turned 180 degrees in the direction of Dargo. No sooner had we stepped inside the welcoming hotel doors than down came the rain.

Never had a big lunch and a beer looked so good. We spent a good deal of the afternoon gazing out at the sheets of rain and the surrounding puddles getting bigger and bigger. Our bunk beds for the evening were looking like a sound investment.

Day Seven:

At 4.30am I could still hear the squelch of rain as it dripped through the broken plastic-corrugated roofing outside our bunkhouse. With dirt tracks being the “only” plan for the day, I started to mentally run through the options for an alternative. By 7am the rain had stopped. The two groups of trail riders from the Hotel’s cabins were in serious mode, changing tyres, straightening levers.

Heading south, we wound down through cloud shrouded hills and on reaching Freestone Creek Road (Old Dargo Road) I rode up for a couple of exploratory kilometres. Fantastic. Being very shaley, the track had soaked up the rain like a blotter giving us a “dust-free” ride for the day. This twisting two-track route brought us out at the township of Briagolong where we connected with the “Marathon” (by name and by nature) Road which wound its way up to around 5,000 ft. (insert your own version of altitude in metrics) at the “Pinnacles”. With visibility down to a few metres in mist and cloud, we negotiated one or two testing inclines. Barnesy: “This is tricky riding up these greasy slopes when I can’t see any further than the end of the front mud-guard.”

The “Pinnacles” is a craggy rampart of rock leading out into thin air. It is reached by a precipitous stairway with a fire observation hut at the very tip. In the swirling white cloud this structure appeared more like some eerie Tibetan monastic retreat. We were unaware of the drop some 2,000 feet into the valleys on three sides. The Nud: “The High Country is kinda spooky in all this mist and cloud, but of course it means I’ve got to come back one day and see it all in clear air.”

Heading towards Licola on the Moroka Road, we pulled in, parked the bikes and hiked the short distance through the scrub to Moroka Hut. This is one of the cattlemen’s high country huts so famous in the stories and poems and an icon of the history of horsemen and their amazing feats of daring and endurance in this area.

Down, down, ever down through the dead trees. A giant scar of the 1990 bushfire. Finally we reached the Wellington River and at last Licola. (A fabulous corner of countryside spoiled by the less-than-helpful attitude of the thin-lipped, mealy-mouthed proprietors of the only general store/camping-ground and a booming generator that ran 24 hours a day.)

Day Eight:

The moisture laden clouds on the ranges to the west could have indicated anything. I opted for no waterproofs. I was wrong. The Nud: “I told you we should have put our waterproofs on from the start.” Not that it was actually raining as we climbed up the dirt road towards Mt Selma, it was more like seepage…and the roads were sloppy, very sloppy.

The Mt Selma link track took us over “the top” and connected with the road to Woods Point. At this intersection, Ian Jensen spotted a good crop of wild blackberries, and as we had set out without eating, we made short work of a very tasty “berry” breakfast. The Nud: “A drop of cream wouldn’t go astray either.”

Descending on the drier side of the Range we rode into the last little township of the mining wild frontier in Victoria. Woods Point is a difficult drive in from anywhere but wears its isolation proudly. Barnesy: “Hey, there’s a walking-track sign over here that says OMEO 220k. They’re kidding….aren’t they?”

Proceeding down the valley, I had intended the group to have lunch at the infamous Kevington Pub. Strike-me-down would you believe the pub had declared its own private public holiday. No-one home.

Crossing the bridge past Jamieson we took “racer-road” around the southern edge of Lake Eildon and cruised across the pondage bridge in late afternoon light. As was becoming common-place, home for the evening was yet again “water-frontage” at the 4 star caravan pack.

Barnesy: “Hey….this little tent I rented for the trip is starting to feel like home.”

Day Nine:

Months previously, the two Queenslanders had asked if they needed to bring wet weather gear. Fortunately I’d told the blokes that in Victoria it wasn’t a matter of “IF” it would rain but “WHEN”. And true to form, the next day gave every intention of being a wet start again. Whichever way you looked at it, day nine was a “transport” section. After an early cruise along Eildon’s spillway wall and a run up to the summit of Mt Pininger for a bird’s eye view, we headed west.

West that is, by every tiny unknown bitumen minor road picking up such unremarkable places as Tallarook and Pyalong before a quick stop for cappuccinos and coffee scrolls at Kyneton. The scrolls received a unanimous vote as “best-on-trip”.

Cold and rain was following us throughout, with the grandfather of all storms dumping at Daylesford. Fortunately we arrived in time to pull-in under a street-side awning. Our destination for the night was Beaufort. And yup….you guessed it, water-front real estate once again on the tiny shores of Lake Beaufort.

By now it felt as if we had eaten a counter-tea in every country hotel in eastern Australia. But without exception, the welcome evening meal was always good value served by very affable hosts.

Barnesy: "This light strapped to my bonse is really handy for reading a book in bed."

Day Ten:

This day’s destination, The Grampians, was only 107 kilometres away. By 9.30am we were seated at a sidewalk café in Ararat having cappuccinos and vegemite toast. Hey, this was easy!

My own secret entrance to the Grampians is by a little known dirt road, the Redman Track, which starts just outside Moyston. We were very interested to learn that a certain Thomas Wills was responsible for the introduction of Australian Rules Football, right here in Moyston township. Tom Wills grew up in this area and learnt a particular style of football from the aboriginal children. They would take a possum skin (minus the possum), pack it with dried grass and sew it up. Hey presto! A football.

This dirt track entrance to the majestic ridges of the Grampians was awe-inspiring, even including a tiny creek across the road. Jenno: "“Lemme see….this water crossing in a natural setting should give the video unique authenticity. Specially if I hit it….real fast on the TT600.”

In the afternoon, we had our compulsory Grampian Experience and hiked to the Pinnacle lookout. (There seem to be a lot of Pinnacles in Victoria). This was achieved at great risk to our collective cardiac and aerobic conditions.

Barnesy: “Now….I’ll just stuff these elastic sided boots and another 2.5 kilos of useless crap that I brought with me into this Australia Post padded bag and…send it off back home.”

Day Eleven:

From the Grampians to Loxton on the Murray River in South Australia is a fair haul if you go the way we were intending. Matters were complicated when we discovered that one of Ian’s D.V. tapes had failed to record on the ride in the previous day. Can you believe, a trip to the Grampians without any “approach” photography!

So…back he went to Moyston next morning to re-record. We at last got away and started out with that marvellous run up to Zumsteins, then on to Horsham (famous as the former home of Kevin Magee).

Heading west to Natimuk (more recently famous as a base for professional adventurers and rock climbers) we watched as the amazing Mt Arapiles emerged ever higher out of the endless horizontal plain. We were keen to play “spot-the-rockclimber” on the vertical faces, but only Barnesy was endowed with the twenty/twenty vision.

Barnesy: “There’s one now. See….that tiny spot on the escarpment.”

A road round the back of Arapiles to the summit was easier for us tough bikies than shinning up the front wearing a pair of multicoloured lycra tights.

Next it was north to Nhill, with the remarkable “Little Desert” on either side being much larger than its name implies. Once we reached the Western highway, Peter dialled in “cruise control” and headed to Adelaide for a quick visit to friends. He would rejoin us two days later at Orroroo. Barnesy: “Look at Nud’s old Beemer just cruising along. You wouldn’t know it was 19 years old. On the other hand….maybe you would.”

The remaining three of us had one of the most difficult sections of the whole trip to complete. I quietly knew that if Ian and Michael made it to Murrayville without problems then they would be right for anything that the rest of the trip had to throw at us.

Heading out to Yanac and a final stop at “Broken Bucket” tank for water, lowering of tyre pressures, and girding of loins, we attacked the 87 kilometres of sandy dirt which is the Murrayville Track. Though rather loose on top, the track was in fairly good condition and we made it to bitumen at the other end with only a few minor scary wobbles. Barnesy: “Crikey…was I lucky not to lose the plot in some of that sandy stuff?”

As darkness descended, we crossed our third state border into South Australia with just enough light to record the event on digital video. At Pinaroo, the warm garments went back on again for the 104 kilometer night ride to Loxton on the mighty Murray River.

Day Twelve:

Loxton forms the bottom point of a triangle which is South Australia’s Riverland and today was our day of playing tourists. The plethora of farm blocks producing predominantly oranges and grapes is supplemented by anything that can be grown from irrigation. Hell, we even saw Butternut pumpkins. It is in this area that many of the lochs exist to step river boats “up” or “down” depending on their destination and the “level” of the river. There is only one genuine paddle steamer in the area now (which sails once a month) as they’ve all moved on down to Mannum and Murray Bridge to ply the yuppie tourist market of the Chardonnay Set out of Adelaide. That’s life.

We did, as befitted our tourist status, take a cruise on Renmark’s “Big River Rambler” to view river life and the famous red ochre river banks. Of course, the Murray is in big trouble with salinization and if you saw the size of the vineyards all sucking water out of it you wouldn’t have to be a genius to work out why.

Back on dry land, we headed west through Waikerie and on to cross the Murray for the last time by ferry at Morgan. The “Morgan Mile” has had its share of motorcycle fame over the years as one of Australia’s few really big flat-track dirt ovals. It also has a terrific camping ground right on the River.

Day Thirteen:

By now, Michael and I had travelled 3.5 thousand kilometres on the XT 600s since our last oil change in Brisbane. The local BP service station in Morgan kindly lent us a used-oil receptacle and armed with my trick flat-funnel and longish tube we soon had the old oil out and the new oil in.

A late departure saw us in Burra by lunchtime. Burra is the remains of a copper-mining town, a shadow of its former self. Ever northward, through Jamestown and as the late afternoon shadows lengthened we rode, like “extras” from the movie “High Plains Drifter”, along the almost deserted streets of Orroroo. Home for the night was a funny little cabin (complete with resident cat) in what passed for the local camping ground.

Right on dusk, the fourth “Drifter” rolled into town from his brief sojourn in Adelaide.

Day Fourteen:

With an early start, we took the Carrieton Road (some dirt) to arrive in Hawker just as the General Store opened for business. This was Sunday, but this was certainly no normal general store. Fresh-baked breads and cakes, cappuccinos and hot chocolates along with the usual groceries, haberdashery, hardware and gardening items. A team of young ladies, obviously from Adelaide, were running it and also organising and catering for gala evenings, for local race days etc. Very enterprising.

On we rode to that remarkable geological feature that is Wilpena Pound, South Australia’s retreat for everything flora, fauna and bushwalking. As we moved northward so too did the daily temperatures begin to rise. Barnesy: “Geez…these full black leathers are a tad hot out here.”

We took the rugged tracks that lead to Martin’s Well and then north to Arkaroola. Observantly, Ian saw an animal’s tail sticking up out of a cattle-grid culvert. The tail was moving. Unbelievably, a young grey kangaroo had slipped head-first through the cattle grid and was suspended by its hips which had become bloodied by hours of struggling. We grouped, and decided on a method of rescue and Ian and Michael donned helmets and gloves in case the ‘roo should lash out.

A quick, strong lift by the butt of the tail and we had “Skippy” out in a moment. The young roo bounded off into the scrub, still in reasonable shape considering its ordeal. This left us with a warm fuzzy feeling that we had saved its life. Another 130 kilometres on those wonderful remote roads had us arrive at the rocky, isolated destination that is Arkaroola.

Jenno: “Wow, Arkaroola is just like Lamayuru in northern India. Lots of beaut stony ground to sleep on. I’m overcome with nostalgia.”

That evening we shared the campground with a huge 4WD bus-load of elderly tourists. Yup, you guessed it, Christians on tour in God’s wilderness. Actually it was quite amusing watching 30 tables and a canopy being put up for the evening meal, 25 or so tents and then all of this pulled down again for a very early morning departure.

Day Fifteen:

The early light of dawn in the Gammon Ranges is spectacular with a genuine feeling of remoteness. We had planned to take two days riding to Innamincka, so a mid-morning get-a-way was all that was required.

Arkaroola to Innamincka is either 440 kilometres or 563 kilometres depending on which set of road signs you read. A significant difference, when fuel capacity can mean the difference between getting there or not. Three of us were running 22 litre fuel tanks with an extra 5 litre jerry-can per bike. Peter was on the star-ship Galactica with 2 x 10 litre jerry-cans. No worries there.

Barnesy: “Now….I’ll just strap this 5 litre jerry-can of petrol around my waist and do an impersonation of a Palestinian terrorist.” With a minimum of 22 km/l for the three Yamahas at “drifting” speed we would make it, either distance. For the record, the trip is 440 kilometres.

A grazing property track links Balcanoona with Moolawatana and then along the Mt Hopeless track. This is a stunning piece of Australian landscape with the Gammon Ranges a constant companion far away on the left. Barnesy: “When you stop and turn the motor off out here, the silence is deafening.”

Eventually the Gammon Ranges disappeared from sight and we were surrounded, 360 degrees, by a totally flat and featureless horizon. No trees, no bushes, nothing but a sparse, dry, grass-like substance, a few centimetres high. Jenno: “Where the hell are we?”

At the T-intersection with the now upgraded Strzelecki Track (remember our associate from Jindabyne) we were glad we’d made the choice to come the back road. Another 26 kilometres and we pulled in to the Montecollina Bore. This is a genuine oasis in an endless horizon of sand and saltbush. The bore is hot artesian water running into a natural cooling pond and we were in for a swim in a flash.

The evening out here on the white sand with a three-quarter moon was the highlight of the trip, as befitted our final night on the trail.

Day Sixteen:

First light at the “Bore” and we were all out of our tents to enjoy the soft cool air of the morning, before the sun scorched its way above the horizon. The Strzelecki Track from here to Innamincka is a big, boring, easy-ish to ride, dirt road. It passes through the Cooper basin that acts as a feeder area for Lake Eyre in times of rain (which are few and far between). The landscape is unchanging. A plume of smoke some 50 kilometres away slowly, slowly eventuated right in front of us as a massive fireball of flame in the sky, as it burnt unwanted gas emissions at Moomba Natural Gas field.

A right turn and onward with the now reddish sand dunes running at right angles to the road.

Barnesy: “No wonder Burke and Wills couldn’t find Innamincka. We’ve been riding for hours out here in the heat and dust and we can’t find it either!”

A left turn and after some 45 kilometres of “mountains on the moon” landscape, there it was! At last, the communications transmission tower of Innamincka.

We’d made it. Sixteen Days of endless Australia.

In the late afternoon light, we visited Cooper Creek and then the site amongst the river gums where an earlier Australian adventurer, John O'Hara Burke, had lost his life. We were quietly humbled by this vast landscape and what we had seen of it on our journey.

Les Leahy

Thanks to Di Welsford for typing this up. One hour, fifteen minutes she wreckons. Bloody amazing.

… Ed.